


The time Christmas snuck up on Neal

by marieincolour



Category: White Collar
Genre: Christmas, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pneumonia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-11
Updated: 2013-12-11
Packaged: 2018-01-04 09:05:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1079125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marieincolour/pseuds/marieincolour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><strike>There's Mafia and then Santa Clause and WAR.</strike> Christmas sneaks up on Neal. Seriously. That's the plot. Rephrase that: There is no plot! This is pure teeth-rotting fluff, and I'm terribly sorry, but plot didn't happen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The time Christmas snuck up on Neal

**Title:** The time Christmas snuck up on Neal  
 **Author:[](http://marieincolour.livejournal.com/profile)[ **marieincolour**](http://marieincolour.livejournal.com/)  — **  
**Characters:** Neal/El/Peter  
 **Genre/pairing:** Gen  
 **Rating:** G  
 **Word-count:** 1611  
 **Summary:** ~~There's Mafia and then Santa Clause and WAR.~~ Christmas sneaks up on Neal. Seriously. That's the plot. Rephrase that: There is no plot! This is pure teeth-rotting fluff, and I'm terribly sorry, but plot didn't happen.  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own White Collar, I'm just borrowing. I'll put them back.  
 **A/N:** My head isn't in the game, and so this is what happened. I'm sorry, you all deserve better, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. :)

 

 

  


**** The time Christmas snuck up on Neal

  
It came on so quickly he didn't even notice. One minute he was looking forward to having the thai he'd picked up for dinner, and then spending the evening putting the finishing touches on a drawing he'd been working on for a while before maybe finishing it all off with a book and some wine to celebrate an early start to the holiday, and the next he was flat on his back on the couch, his entire body feeling heavy and lethargic like he'd run a marathon.

By the first night he was running a high fever, his skin feeling tight and hot, his face heavy and achy. He spent the night in a miserable ball huddled under his shower, trying to keep warm until he realised it was making his fever even worse.

By the second night he was coughing up balls of slime big enough to make him choke, and by the third he couldn't make himself move farther than the kitchen for water and then back to bed again.

The fifth night he ran out of clean sweats, and a towering pile of laundry sat at the end of his bed, mocking him. He woke up in fevered nightmares where murderers hid in the shadow, unable to shake fantasy from reality.

The sixth night he had to sleep upright against the headboard, because lying down meant his chest clogged up and he couldn't breathe, but staying awake was impossible.

The seventh morning had him calling Peter, only to find that his voice had disappeared with the coughing.

He had vague memories of slipping off to an exhausted sleep despite the feeling that he couldn't get enough air into his body, the muscles around his chest sore with the strain of trying to breathe through the sludge in his lungs.

-

 

Waking up was slow, soft. He felt a little confused for a moment, but it wasn't anything new. The fever had put itself like a soft barrier between reality and his head, and he woke up wondering where he was almost as often as he woke himself up coughing.

It wasn't the case this time, he noticed. He wasn't cold, either, or too hot, and his clothes were still relatively dry, rather than the sweat soaked mess he'd been changing out of about ten times a day over the past week. His head hurt, and his chest felt sore and tight, but that hadn't woken him up, either.

He thought it might have been the fingers currently combing through his hair, rubbing against his scalp.

A soft noise escaped him, and rather than open his eyes he squished his head tighter into his pillows, huffing out a breath as the person sitting next to him laughed, tugging gently on his hair.

«Awake, Neal?»

«Yeah,» he whispered, and broke off coughing almost immediately. The hands tugged him into a sitting position, and the sludge in his lungs shifted a little. He spat into a tissue, groaning as his chest burned with pain.  
El sat on his bed, legs crossed underneath her, watching him.  
«When did you get here?» He asked, and even though his voice gave out halfway through the first word, she answered. «A little while ago. You seemed to be sleeping pretty soundly, so I didn't want to disturb you.»

He shrugged. «Been sleeping a lot,» he whispered, and she smiled. «Good, that's... Good.»

«Where's Peter?» He managed after a little while where she watched him lying listlessly on his side, his chest wheezing with every breath. He'd only meant to ask for a ride to the doctor. Hadn't meant for El to have to pick up the slack. He could catch a cab.

«He's stuck in the office, so he sent me over. I've got the car downstairs, and I've packed you some clothes and toiletries. Is there anything you need?»

«I don't... What?»

He shivered a little as the reserves his body had managed to save up while he was asleep ran out, and she straightened his covers a little.

«Peter told me to take you to the doctor, but I don't think you should be alone right now. June's out of town, right?»

«Yeah,» he whispered, because she was. The house was dark and empty and quiet, the rooms downstairs colder than usual. June'd be gone until just after Christmas, but he'd been looking forward to the time alone, originally, until he'd woken up about a week ago with a chest filled with cement and a head full of cotton.

«...our house,» El finished, looking at him expectantly, and he blinked, realizing he'd zoned out.

«What?» He asked again, and El smiled, smoothing his hair back again.

«Nothing, sweetie. Think you can get dressed while I get everything ready for you to stay with us for a while?»

He shook his head, trying to make it stay in one place, but it swam dizzily instead.

«Yeah,» he whispered, and crossed his fingers that he was right. “Wait, what?”

-

The doctors visit seemed to swim past in a haze. Time moved faster than he could grasp, and at the same time so slowly it seemed to not be moving at all. His skin felt sensitive under the bulky fleece sweater, like the soft fabric was too coarse against the goosebumps in his skin.  
He coughed until he puked in the car, blushing and tearing up and sobbing out pained breaths at the pain in his chest while El rubbed his back, and then drove them back to Brooklyn through the afternoon traffic, the seatbelt rubbing uncomfortably against his cheek.

-

Their guest bedroom was cool. Clean. It smelled vaguely of flowers and laundry detergent, and the bathroom wasn't full of damp towels and the rubbish he hadn't been able to clean up over the past week.

He fell asleep before his head hit the pillows carefully stacked up behind him to keep him slightly upright, and woke only briefly to El feeding him pills and water a while later.

It went on like that, though he didn't know for how long, because fever burned through him like fire, despite the antibiotics. There were hands on him, coaxing him to drink and sleep and wake up, «It's a dream, Neal, you're dreaming,» and shadows lurked in the dark corners of the room.

When he finally felt able to think again, his head felt light and dizzy on top of his shoulders, and his stomach squirmed queasily at the thought of moving. At the same time, he felt grimy and disgusting, the sweat sticking to his body old and stale. He needed a shower. He needed breakfast. Some toast, maybe, if he could manage. Maybe tea.

The guest room swam into view around him, light and cool. There were voices downstairs, and he smiled at the sound of Peter and El bickering to each other. He made his way to the bathroom as Peter's voice drifted up the stairs, and the smell of wood smoke and food and Christmas hit him.

He showered sitting down, because his legs trembled, and his head swam dizzily at every cough. He got dressed sitting on the toilet lid, because the damp air made his head feel funny. The stairs had his legs shaking with exhaustion, but he grinned down at Peter and El the moment they came into view, and then...

Then he felt rotten and horrible and like the worst friend ever.

«It's Christmas?» He asked, sitting down on the second to bottom step, dragging his hands through his wet hair that threatened to curl up even worse than the bedhead he'd sported earlier.

«I slept through Christmas?»

Peter came towards him, setting aside the half-wrapped gift he'd been in the process of unwrapping, and El slipped off to the kitchen with a smile.

«You're awake,» Peter said, and Neal let himself be tugged to his feet. «That's good. Good. You feeling better?»

«I.. Uh. Sort of?» Neal managed, letting Peter manhandle him down onto the couch, and spread a blanket over him.

«Your fever broke last night, we were getting concerned about you.»

«I'm.. I'm really sorry, Peter, I didn't mean...»

«You should probably keep using that inhaler for a while, though. Do you need more cough syrup?»

Neal shrugged, then coughed, and then nodded.

«It might make you sleepy,» Peter went on, and Neal groaned in frustration.

«Peter. I ruined Christmas for you. I'm sorry, I didn't mean for El to have to...»

«I didn't have to do anything, Neal, especially leave you on your own in a huge house when you were running a fever of a 103. What kind of people would that make us, huh?»

Neal shrugged, because he was comfortable and not alone, and arguing seemed pointless, and let Peter measure out a dose of syrupy cough medicine in a spoon instead. The peppermint barely covered a bitter taste and gooey texture that had him gulping down water like a man in the desert.

«Besides. Who wants to be alone at Christmas?»

Peter settled down in his chair again, and El sat at the end of the couch where Neal's feet had been before he curled them up towards his stomach. Her tea sent little clouds of steam out into the room, and the cup in front of Neal looked warm and nice. He held it tight between his hands, watching Peter opening the gift for real this time, laughing at the Snoopy socks from Satchmo, and the dog treats the dog had “given” El.

Sleeping through Christmas didn't seem like the worst idea after all if this was the result, really.


End file.
